Day 25 Postpartum: Bad Mother Confessions.

Ok, so I've stopped losing weight. And in fact, I have begun to gain some back. Here is why:



After 9 months of assiduously avoiding Real Booze, and enjoying only the occasional half-glass of wine or lager, I have reacquainted myself with The Sauce. Oh, alcohol. I missed you so.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that the duration of my pregnancy was the longest period of time I have spent totally sober since Junior High School. Not that I've ever been a crazed addict or anything. But eliminating all mind-alteration from my diet was frankly boring as shit - not just because Mama Digs the Light Fantastic, but because I got to watch all of Nova's loving aunts and uncles traipse through the Doors of Perception for three seasons while I sipped Perrier and drove them places.

FUCK that.

Yes, I will relish a return to lean, mean superhero shape. The Fatherbeast, too, is looking forward to a metabolic spring cleaning after the cloistered past few months of cookies and pre-frozen meals. But getting back into superhero shape necessitates an elimination of empty calories and frankly I am not ready to walk away from Quality Adult Beverages just yet. We've had so little time together.

And for those of you who will cluck your tongues (Hi, Grandma!), please rest easy. I am timing my indulgences to ensure that they will clear from my system in time for DD's next feeding. Alcohol levels in breastmilk, as in plasma, peak at 30 minutes post consumption and require ~2 hours to clear. Each feeding requires 15-20 minutes. So by nursing her as I enjoy a cocktail, I am both minimizing the amount of time I must wait to feed her "clean" milk, and maximizing the shock value of bringing a baby into a bar. Double WIN!

In other boob news, I have been pumping The Juice to stockpile for my return to work on April 1. Of course I intend to pump at work as well, but there's no telling whether that will go well straightaway and what harm can possibly come of establishing a pumping routine early? It's hard enough to do it at home. I can only imagine what it will be like in a month when I have to dash off to a special room in the middle of whatever I'm doing, lest my tits obscure access to the dissecting microscope or leak into a sample of cultured virus.

Because each pumping session represents one routine feeding, I am supplementing with formula (I'm also using DISPOSABLE DIAPERS, and we are decorating the nursery with the pelts of Polar Bears). It would be sad if it weren't hilarious.

If you've ever nursed a child, you're familiar with the totally blissed out expression they get - one of rapture and trust and what passes for affection in a creature that can barely see in stereo and weighs less than a standing rib roast. Whenever I feed her the formula, the look she gives me is the opposite of that. It is one of discomfort, and betrayal, and lament. Her tiny little brow furrows. Her lips contort into a grimace even around the offending rubber nipple. "This is not a boob!" her demeanor projects. "I thought you loved me?" Oh but I do. I do. There is no other individual on earth, nor any sum of money, that could convince me to attach the Medela to my person for a combined hour every day.

Ladies: do you consider your breasts erogenous? Have you ever felt objectified when someone stared you down, appreciating them for those specific qualities without attaching any value to you as a person? This is just like that, except instead of being objectified for beauty, you're objectified for functionality. The act of pumping breast milk is a literal objectification. Except instead of being exploited for your desirability, you are now exploited for calories. Pumping manages to entirely suck the charm and intimacy out breastfeeding. You're a dairy farm in so many words. It is a reminder that your perfect child, whom you love and would do anything for, is (or will shortly be) separated from you. It is painful and graceless and completely unsexy to all but dedicated fetishists who surfed to this page accidentally (keep moving, fellas).

But of course I will continue to do it for as long as I can. Because I want only the best for my bean. Because of the look that she gives me when I feed her the formula bottle. It's not rat poison, but from the look on her face it might as well be.

In the meantime, I am coping as well as I can with the continuing indignities of the postpartum period. The pain from my sutures is nearly gone, but I'm still bleeding. And waking up drenched in sweat every night. I understand my hair is due to start falling out shortly. So while I do feel blessed in that I am now mobile again and postpartum depression seems to have given me a pass (knock wood) I am anxious to return to a normal-ish state. One that involves only the minimum amount of excretions necessary for the health of my child. Ick.

Day 14 Postpartum

I am dragging ass.

Really, I think it has more to do with the absence of structure in my days. The Fatherbeast is back at work, and I am here with... not so much to do. I am trying to be gentle with myself. But I'm going to need a schedule soon.

Tomorrow, I think, it will definitely be time to start working out again.

Vital Statistics:

Hips: 39

Waist: 30

Bust: 41

Weight: 156.4

Body fat %: 21.5

I've lost 20 lbs in two weeks! Feels weird.

No pictures today - I'm slovenly.

Don't hate me.

I feel extraordinarily well-rested. I was getting a lot of rest at the end of my pregnancy - seems all I did was sleep. It's just that none of that sleep did me any good. I was exhausted constantly.

I am sleeping less now, naturally. However, I do not feel as though I am missing sleep at all. There were daily naps in the first week postpartum. Now, in the second week there has only been one nap - and this more of a midday lounge with Fatherbeast and cold beer in the direct path of an air conditioning unit, brought about by LA's grab-bag of freakish February weather.

I realize that this is not the common state of affairs for new parents. However, it seems we have an uncommonly placid child. I was expecting to be dazed with sleep deprivation, near tears, unable to even shower or prepare basic meals, at the mercy of an id-driven, wailing little stranger. Instead, the Fatherbeast and I are enjoying leisurely breakfasts at the table, a tidy nest, and an active social life. The possibility exists, I realize, that I may jinx this somehow. But even with my lack of experience I can tell that this is a Very Good Baby we have here.

We are co-sleeping, insofar as she sleeps in a bassinet next to our bed. Yes, she does wake up sporadically to eat. This does not involve crying. She just kind of squeeks. We call her Squeeky. We also call her Hedgehog. Or just Hog. Or Piglet. Or Milkface. Or Milkface Monkeypants. Or Her Excellency. She should learn her actual name by the time she's one.

At any rate, I am LOVING maternity leave. I could stare at this little girl all day long. And I do! I'm also relishing the unexpected energy and focus. Instead of wandering around zombiefied in my pajamas I am using this time to plan for the very interesting future that awaits our little family. All of my parts and pieces are coming back together (i.e., I can sit and ambulate comfortably now) and I'm overjoyed to have six more weeks of this bliss ahead of me.

I'll be ready to start working out fairly soon!

Breastfeeding is definitely a team sport. Nova and I are learning each others' patterns and habits. As of now, I am feeding her on demand. However, I might have to introduce more structure into our schedule. Her mealtimes are sporadic: an hour between feedings here, two and a half hours there, four hours the next time. The time she spends on the breast is correspondingly erratic: sometimes she spits out the Nip after five minutes, sometimes I have to wake her up to pry her off after a thirty minute tit-binge. I have a hard time telling whether I am feeding her enough. Additionally, I had hoped to start pumping and saving milk for when I return to work, but at this rate I cannot because she is nursing constantly and I can't edge in time for the Medela. Perhaps a regimen is what is needed. More on this as it develops.

Here is the requisite adorable baby picture:

Day 7 Postpartum

I know what all of you fourth-wave feminists are thinking: "I already know how kids are going to affect my lifetime earning ability and chances of tenure. What are they going to do to my body?"

Well, here's what's happening so far with mine-


Weight on Delivery Day: 176 (8 lbs of which were my daughter)

Weight Today: 162

Bust: 42

Waist: 31

Hips: 40

Body Fat %: 21.5

Prepregnancy Size: 2

Size Today: 10





I removed it to take these pictures, but I've been using a Belly Bandit wrap about 22 hours a day - much needed lumbar and abdominal support. The Fatherbeast says it feels like body armor.

Giving birth is, y'know, hard and stuff. My labor was not quite precipitous, but it was very fast - less than four hours from soup-to-nuts. Active labor started at 3 pm, we arrived at Labor and Delivery at 6 pm, and by 6:48 we were parents. Three days early at that. Ours is a young lady in a hurry.

The care we received at Arcadia Methodist was top-notch and I would recommend it to anyone in the area. For a number of reasons, I'm very thankful to have chosen a hospital delivery instead of a home birth attended by a midwife.

Nova's birth was completely natural, and the birth team supported us in this. No drugs, no cutting. However, because she came so fast I did incur several small tears and am still unable to sit comfortably. Ouch. Two nights in the hospital with all of the accoutrement necessary to contain the horrorshow carnage, learn to nurse, and let somebody else change my sheets at hourly intervals was a godsend. I would have been miserable at home.

Several things happened outside of our birth plan that I was 100% ok with. For starters, I became dehydrated. I hadn't planned on an IV, as I'd anticipated moving around. But so dried out, immobilized and nauseous was I that when the nice lady came with a big bag of fluid they could run right into my arm, why, I was delighted.

I had envisioned laboring in a variety of positions, and delivering from something a little more gravity-friendly than The Evil Lithotomy Position. But when the time came to figure things out because this baby was coming and I was no longer competent to walk or talk, guess which position I naturally assumed?

I had also intended to push ad libitium, instead of being coached by the nurses to hold my breath and push like hell on their count of ten. However, though the urge to push came as expected, the act of pushing was (for me) surprisingly non-intuitive. Amid the sensory overload, it was difficult to tell which muscles to recruit. I found that holding my breath and focusing on external cues really did help. (I was also amused to hear western health care professionals use hippie woo-woo external cues such as "project your energy downward")

Finally, when my water broke, it was found that there was copious, old meconium present in the fluid. I'm not strictly sure if it was necessary for her to spend 4 hours under observation in the NICU. However, if in doing so she avoided respiratory problems later I am glad of this. Meconium in the fluid would have motivated a midwife to send me to a hospital anyway.

And it's true what they say: you forget the pain very quickly.